


Cranberry Wine

by cocoacremeandgays



Category: South Park
Genre: Aged-Up Characters, Anniversaries, Casual drinking, Couvade syndrome, Disgustingly sweet, F/M, Fluff, Loneliness, M/M, Making Out, Mild Angst, Morning Sickness, Pregnancy, Romance, Smut, sympathetic pregnancy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-08
Updated: 2019-01-21
Packaged: 2019-10-06 14:23:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17346836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cocoacremeandgays/pseuds/cocoacremeandgays
Summary: In which Stan and Wendy's anniversary celebrations result in an unexpected surprise, and Kyle tries to find comfort in his loneliness.((AKA: Wendy gets pregnant, Stan freaks out, and Kyle finds it all very amusing.))





	1. In the Vineyard

**Author's Note:**

> heads up: this entire chapter is, like. disgustingly sweet makeouts / smut.  
> i wanted to write a happy story for once, so... here it is. i've been planning this for, like, months. i didn't actually think i'd ever start to write it, tbh, lol.  
> i don't know when the next chapter will be up. hopefully soon, but i can't promise anything. i want to take this fic slow.  
> POV will swap between stan and kyle.
> 
> comments / feedback / constructive criticism; all is welcome!

Her mouth tastes like wine, yet her lips smell of artificial cherries. And those lips of hers, red from the gloss and glistening from the light of the moon overhead, have been attached to Stan’s own since they stepped onto the porch. They have shared a dozen too many pecks, lasting more than their fair share of seconds, and they will share many more. Of that, he is certain.

It’s a Friday night. They usually reserve date nights for Saturdays, but today is a special occasion. Their anniversary sneaked up on them. Without thinking, they had called in a sick day to both of their occupations and spent their time virtually attached at the hip. It was only when the sun went to bed that they rolled out of the comfort of their own, dressing in their nicest clothes and spending their dinner at a semi-fancy restaurant. It wasn’t objectively perfect (third anniversaries rarely are), but to them, it had been everything. There was something about the imperfection that gave it meaning.

Wendy detaches her mouth from Stan’s. Her head cocks, and she bites at his earlobe. The keys jingle in his left hand as he adjusts his grip on the doorknob. Her lip gloss has grown tacky in the cold air, sticking against his skin in reminders of what’s to come. A shudder rolls down his spine. She feels it through the palms that cradle his neck— he can tell from the way her posture perks.

“Are you gonna open the door, handsome?” she asks, her voice on the edge of whispering. It booms so loudly, so prettily in his ears. She is so close. When he doesn’t immediately respond, she hums in questioning. Her lips open swiftly and she mouths against his neck, trailing delicately viscid kisses down the side of his throat. He swallows; the pleasant pressure never leaves. Teasingly, she bites and utters, “We’re gonna get caught, sooner or later.”

It takes him a minute to gather his bearings. He can’t see much through his eyes, half-lidded as they are, yet he can’t quite bring himself to open them fully. He settles for peeking, once again fumbling with the keys as he searches for the lock. It clicks into place, and he turns it just as Wendy lifts from his neck to passionately lock their lips together. Stan, caught off-guard, moves to pocket the keys and wraps his arm around her waist. They enter the house swiftly. He drops the keys.

Stan tries to pull away to pick them up, but Wendy won’t let him. She smothers him with her beauty; the temptation of her is so heavenly, it must be a sin. He relents, momentarily, opening his mouth against her own to taste the cherry-wine mix that her flavor has become. Soon enough, he regains control. With a second attempt at pulling away, she grabs his cheeks and presses their foreheads together. Quietly, he laughs, mumbling, “ _Babe_ ,” under his breath.

“ _What_?” she replies, cheeky with her tone. She hooks one of her legs up, her knee coming to rest at his hip. He smooths his fingers down her body, caressing from her shoulder and around her breast. Her chest doesn’t quite fill out the red cocktail dress, but her figure is nonetheless stunning. He catches his hands in the flare of her skirt, squeezes the material in his palms. His hand follows the contour of her leg until he can lace his fingers beneath her knee; his other hand catches her hip. He pulls her close.

In a matter of seconds, she wraps her arms around Stan’s neck. Her attention is back to his ear, nipping and kissing until she trails down to his neck, connecting her lips to the spot just below his jaw. He loves it, loves the attention, loves the way her breath heats up the side of his throat. She is addicting. She always has been, and she always will be, and he wants her to know just how much he loves her.

“You should shut the door,” Wendy tells him.

“I would, if you gave me the opportunity,” he retorts. She snickers. Her body heat warms him. Her fingertips leave stinging trails across his skin. It still feels like the first time, except without the awkwardness that stems from _first times_.

Wendy whispers something about blaming her for everything, but the concept is short-lived. She focuses her attention on flexing her leg and kicking the front door shut behind them. Distantly, Stan wonders if anyone has seen them. The idea usually irks him, but tonight, he finds it intriguing. The idea of everyone knowing what they’re doing— that they are truly _each-other’s_ tonight— arouses a protective, dominant part of him that usually isn’t seen.

More kisses, more touches; tender caresses, loving brushes.

Wendy drops her leg in favor of backing up, continuing blindly until her back is pressed against the wall.

Stan presses one final kiss to her lips before pecking a small trail of nips down her neck. He reaches her collarbone, where the cocktail dress splits for the sleeves. Her perfume smells vaguely sweet, filling his head with blankness that is overtaken by action. He hooks his fingers through the strap of her dress and tugs it down her shoulder. He laves his tongue over the crook of her neck. The gasps she releases when he latches onto the flesh he finds are hauntingly melodic. He loves the noises she makes, wants to hear more of them, wants to bury himself in her vocalizations.

Her fingers reach up to lace through his hair, carding the smooth locks apart and flicking loose strands away. Stan always has shed quite a bit, yet he somehow always manages to have a complete, thick head of hair. She teases him constantly, telling him he’s like a dog. It’s ridiculous, but it makes her laugh. It makes her wrinkle her nose and reveal her teeth and squint until her eyes are closed.

He loves her so much.

In a swift motion, he hooks his hands beneath her rear and rests a knee against the wall, holding her up to pin her where she doesn’t need to focus on standing. She complies quickly, hooking her legs around his hips and wrapping her arms tighter around him. Her breasts push so thoroughly to his chest; her back arches so the entirety of their fronts can press together.

Stan releases his mouth from her neck, giving the mark little licks and quiet kisses. Wendy shivers, her head pushed back against the wall and her breath coming in a soft, hitched rhythm. Her hair has mussed, fallen from its tied ponytail and collapsed over her shoulder. It’s soft against Stan’s face, smelling of a mix of her perfume and his conditioner. She always uses his. She likes the Men’s 3-in-1 better than the Women’s Collection.

Among everything, though, Stan cannot ignore the tension in her shoulders, or the way she seems uncomfortable. He can understand why; the wall is never the best place for this sort of thing— even if it does give it a bit more excitement.

Stan adjusts his grip on Wendy. Hooking an arm beneath her thighs, he hoists her up bridal-style. Not expecting the sudden change, she squeals, quickly latching onto the fabric over the back of his dress shirt. He turns on his heel, carefully making his way up their staircase.

“You better be careful, Stan, I swear to god,” she giggles, peering over his shoulder as they ascend, “if you drop me…”

“I’ve carried a lot heavier, Wends.”

Wendy rolls her eyes playfully. She combs her fingers through his bangs when they reach the top, kissing his cheeks and lips until he’s blinded. He turns around when they reach their bedroom, nudging the door open with his shoulder. He backs into the room, grateful for the straight-shot they have towards the bed.

Her laughter is back when he throws her onto their mattress and climbs on top of her. He disregards the messy bedsheets, and pays no mind to the wrinkles developing in their clothing. The light is off, leaving only the glow from the moon outside for them to see by. Her lip gloss is mostly wiped off, still tacky against his neck and ear. He fights the urge to wipe it off in favor of settling himself between her legs. His dress pants rustle against the thick fabric of her skirt, which pools around her hips when she lifts her legs around his waist.

Stan can see the black of her underwear. Even in the dark, he can determine the contrast of her maraschino dress and the garments she wears beneath. He smooths his fingers over the front of her underwear. It isn’t lace; she doesn’t like the way it feels. Admittedly, he never found lace particularly enamoring. Eventually, he slips his thumb down to tease the valley between her thighs. She makes a pleasant noise in response, wiggling her hips against his touch.

With his free hand, Stan hikes the front of her dress up so he can see more of her. He’s getting used to the dark, now, adjusting quickly to the dimness.

The pale surface of her stomach is revealed, flat until it dips and then rises for the contours of her pelvis. Wendy is divine; Stan can’t hold himself back for much longer.

She breathes softly into the dark when Stan leans to press kisses down the center of her stomach. He travels his mouth down until he reaches the cloth boundary of her underwear. Even then, he continues. He darts his tongue out over the softness of the black cloth; the heat of his mouth makes her quiver, her legs instinctively shying open in anticipation. He urges them to; he removes his hands from her clothing in favor of propping her thighs open.

“Fuck,” she cusses softly as he mouths at her center. Her eyes flutter closed. Her back arches. Again, he licks. She makes another soft noise. Her fingers hook into the pillowcases beneath her head.

Stan plans on taking it slow. He plans on giving her a rolling pleasure, something she can linger in the glow of for the rest of her night. Wendy, on the other hand, has other plans. Before he can think, she flexes her hips away and pulls him up by his hair. It stings; he follows the touch on instinct. His hands leave her thighs in favor of propping himself up, pressing his palms into the mattress beside her head for balance.

Wendy kisses him, nice and slow and passionate. He lowers himself to his elbows, entranced by the lingering texture of her cotton underwear and the renewed taste of cherries and wine. It’s significantly faded, by now, but the ghost of it is more than enough. Her fingers travel, gentle whispers against his skin, coaxing shudders from his neck and down his spine. She trails those beautiful fingers, hooks them in the buttons of his shirt and tugs at his tie.

She pulls it off over his head, tossing the long snake of cloth across the room. Her fingers roam more insistently over his newly-exposed chest, pushing the boundaries of the half-buttoned dress shirt.

“Take me, Corporal,” whispers Wendy, lifting her hips up to meet his. He presses down in response, though still finds the breath to argue in jest.

“I was never a Corporal.”

Wendy is not amused by his interjection, but she doesn’t let it ruin the mood. He is unendingly grateful for her patience, and he shows it through caring kisses to her cheek. He cups her face with his hand, gingerly strokes the soft skin of her jaw. He pecks a kiss to her forehead. Their hips roll together, smooth and steady and calm. They just enjoy each other, having fun with the pleasant feelings but not pressured to get to an end. Stan lowers his hand to Wendy’s chest, caressing her breast and cupping it in his palm. She sighs against his lips.

“I love you,” he tells her. She smiles, reaches to cup his cheek much like he’d done. Her wedding band catches in the scintillating light of the moon. He presses his hand over her own and turns his head, kissing the inside of her palm. Against her fingers, he whispers, “I love you so much.”

“I love you, too, Stan,” she replies. She tucks herself lower, pressing and arching to feel more of the surface-connection of their bodies. His breath catches in his throat before coming out all at once. He takes her hand more fully in his own and kisses her, full, on the lips.

“What do you want me to do?” Stan asks. She doesn’t reply right away. He gives her the time she needs, though quietly adds, “I want you to feel good.”

A few more breaths, and Wendy finally answers, “Whatever you want to do, I’m okay.”

She often says that; she often displays willingness and trust in what he wants. Stan never jumps to anything, though. To him, she will always come first. “Can I use my mouth?” he says. It’s vague, but she understands. It’s a lot gentler than _can I eat you out?_

“Yes,” Wendy breathes, “Yeah, of course.”

Stan kisses her one last time before sliding down the bed. He continues until he scoots off the edge, kneeling at the foot of it. He tugs at the hem of her skirt, ushering her to follow. Without question, she does.

He trails his fingers down her thighs, looping little heart-patterns over her knees and kissing the centers of the delicate swirls of invisible design. Her skin is soft beneath his lips, and as he trails his mouth up, it gently gives beneath the slightest pressure. He spreads his hands high up on her thighs, gingerly separating her legs so he has proper access.

With his teasing, it doesn’t take long to push her over the edge.

That’s okay, though.

It's just the two of them, and they have all night.


	2. Cloverleaf

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tonight's a solemn night, tbh, but sometimes we need a solemn night to get by.

Every time Kyle shifts, his couch creaks in complaint. He needs to replace the poor thing; it’s getting old, and the pillows in the corners are lumpy and awkward. It’s an ugly shade of green, and there’s a pale beige throw over the back with a design of flowers. That blanket used to belong to his grandmother, and then it belonged to his mother. Finally, it fell into his hands— and although he still doesn’t know whether the blanket looks nice over the couch, he just can’t bring himself to put it away.

It is with a sigh that he shuts the book in his lap. The halves of it thunk together loudly, thick from being a hardcover. He’s careful with it, even as he balances a small glass in his right hand. The glass is full, and the liquid stains the sides of the glass from the idle position it’s been in for the past few minutes. He flexes his toes against the couch’s seat cushions in boredom, reaching to place the book onto the coffee table. He slides down on the couch and rests his head against the armrest. The wine in his glass jostles with his movement. He turns his wrist to watch it flow from one side of the cup to the other, mildly entranced by the juxtaposition.

By no means is Kyle someone who regularly dabbles in alcoholic beverages. His drinks are few and far between, and he always likes to keep himself sober when out and about. He is not a social drinker; he engages in small talk more easily than casual sipping. The strongest thing he’d had in recent memory was about three years ago, and even _that_ he doesn’t count. It’s not that he didn’t drink that day (he definitely did, he remembers clearly the sharp burn), it’s just that it wasn’t _technically_ of his own volition. Stan had grabbed a glass of whiskey from the bar, and while Kyle fully understood the fact that Stan was, indeed, an adult, and could make his own decisions, Kyle refused to allow Stan to drink. In retrospect, he supposes he could have just poured the drink out, but he had panicked. Today, the memory is fond and laughable, but it had hurt the next morning.

Kyle takes a mildly amused sip, his posture relaxed though his neck is stiff as he lifts to meet the glass. The liquid is slightly chilled, if not a little on the warm side. He finds it bearable at worst, and slightly preferable at best. He does not drink _nearly_ enough to render himself a preference of any sort, but the idea of it is pleasant. His eyes are tired, slowly falling closed as he relaxes on the couch. The taste of wine lingers, even after it’s gone. Strong in its ghost, it bitters between his teeth and returns with every swallow. A gentle fizz bustles itself in his head, straight to the center. It warms his midbrain— hypothetically, of course. He ponders dopamine and serotonin as individual chemicals, but those thoughts don’t drag into anywhere particularly interesting. It’s more just a reprocessing of information, recycling the things from his job that he doesn’t care to remember, but can recall anyway. This is supposed to be his day, though. Slightly less relaxed, he takes another sip.

When you hit a certain age, people tend to stop wishing you a happy birthday. Admittedly, Kyle doesn’t hold it against them. He can fully understand why they might avoid doing so; who wants to be reminded of just how _close_ they are to thirty? But even so, he can’t help but feel a little miffed at the fact that he has received no extraneous messages. No calls, no texts, no visits. Of course, he doesn’t know very many people, and the few that he _does_ know aren’t close enough to be considered _friends_ — and certainly not close enough to remember his birthday. The only person he’s managed to keep in touch with since high school is Stan (and Wendy, of course, but they never were very close). Everyone else has faded into the background. Everyone else left.

Kyle forces himself to sit up fully. The next sip he takes is no sip at all. It is a depressing gulp, a swallow of the things he doesn’t want to think about. That doesn’t stop him from thinking about those things, though. It doesn’t keep him from pondering the inner workings of his psyche, over-analyzing his need for socialization beyond the simple _humans are social creatures_. In a perfect world, he would be able to get on just fine without extraneous support. He assures himself he’s done just fine, thus far, but the isolation— however technical— is wearing on him. He can feel it corroding the tissues of his brain. It leaves his stomach feeling empty. Unsatisfied. Like there should be something _more_ there that _isn’t_ , for some reason.

In the next few minutes, Kyle finishes his glass of wine and stands up from the ugly couch. It squawks like some sort of tormented fowl, but he doesn’t give it the time of day. Why _would_ he? It’s a couch, for fuck’s sake. A couch! And yet, here he is, staring at the damned thing like it offends him, all the while cradling a stained, empty glass.

There was this kid that he knew, back from school. The name of the guy escapes him at the moment, but Kyle can recall his attitude towards everything that moved. That attitude, mixed with a stonewalling expression and cocky mentality. Of course, Kyle is being facetious. He never got to know the guy, nor did he ever get to experience what insolence ran through that brain of his. The exterior brawn of that kid’s chutzpah was just too strong for him to give much of a damn. The kid had a habit of flipping everyone off. Kyle never found it very flattering, but then again, he doesn’t usually drink. He flips off the couch and blames it on the wine, like someone’s there to judge his motives.

Kyle leaves the living room, fingering the smooth exterior of the glass he still grips. The wine strengthens when he thinks about it, settling in his stomach and on his tongue. He hates the taste, finds it frustratingly sour, but still the craving comes and he wishes for more. He hates that, too; he hates the fact that he needs to keep himself occupied, and since he doesn’t have the attention span for a book right now, the only thing worthwhile at his disposal is wine. This is how bad decisions are made. This is the type of thing that leads to blacking out and waking up the next morning covered in sticky-notes detailing the names of everything he bought off of Amazon.

Not that he’s speaking from experience.

The glass clinks against the faux-rock design of his counter. It sits, situated, at the end of the island as he searches his cabinets and cupboards for the bottle of wine. The longer his search draws on, however, the more he contemplates his lucidity. This seems like the type of thing he should remember. He had the bottle just over thirty minutes ago, and he’s already misplaced it? He may not be the most trustworthy person in the ways of remembering menial details, but he has never _once_ lost anything in less than a few days. He huffs, shoving himself up from the floor and turning towards the island. He lets out a soft, involuntary grunt of surprise when he sees the bottle of wine had been sitting next to the fruit bowl the whole time.

Without much thought, he calls the bottle of wine a sneaky bastard. It doesn’t respond, of course, because it’s inanimate and it probably has less brains than his couch. Calling it a sneaky bastard helps him feel better, though, so he ignores the fact that it doesn’t make sense in favor of his own comfort.

Kyle opens the bottle of wine and wastes no time pouring some into his cup. The noise it makes is soothing, damp against the stained glass and quiet in its liquid hissing. He could pour wine forever, and probably would, if he were drunk enough. For now, he’s fine settling for just one more glass. Then, he will go to bed, and he will wake up at noon and make himself breakfast-slash-lunch and go for a walk. That is his plan. It’s supposed to be warm out, tomorrow, too. The mid-sixties are his preferable range of temperature, and the prediction is a high of sixty-six. He mulls over the idea of asking Stan to go with him, but quickly remembers that he won’t be able to. Stan and Wendy are celebrating their anniversary; Kyle doesn’t want to impose.

Overall, he supposes it’s fine. Walking alone is better than not walking at all. It’s a natural way to get his brain to start working, and he probably needs the vitamin D. The last time he had blood work done, his doctor brought up a deficiency in that area. At the time, it hadn’t been of much note, but the recollection of his test results makes tipsy-Kyle snort in ridiculous, juvenile humor. He’s almost thirty, and he still can’t stop his ridiculous brain from making ridiculous jokes about ridiculous vitamins.

He brings the glass up to his lips, but stops himself short. He lowers the glass again, and begins on his way up the stairs and to his bedroom. He doesn’t want to finish his final glass downstairs. He wants to crawl into bed and fall asleep with the warmth of wine still tingling his throat and the corners of his cheeks. He wants to curl up in the covers with his brain still buzzing from the recent sipping. So that is exactly what he will do.

Kyle’s bedroom is the last door on the left. It always has been, and it always will be; it’s just the way he’s used to operating. This house, of course, has a completely different layout than the one he grew up in, but that is to be expected. He’s hours away from that family home. He misses it, of course, the way he misses things that happened when times were simpler. He misses the ease of being a child, and he misses the busyness he had as a teenager. He’s a medical professional, but he doesn’t work as much as he thought he would. He works a lot, of course, it’s just not enough. He has too much free time. He has too much _time_. A guilty part of him starts to imagine horrible things happening; they are nonspecific and relatively bland, but they would give him something to _do_. As he is, there isn’t much, and he’s bored. _He’s bored_.

Kyle enters his bedroom. His body shudders at the chill. He must have left the vent open; the air is brittle and stings his airways. Upon further inspection, he notes that the window has been left open. Distantly, he recalls opening it in the morning to let in some cool air. It had been quite warm in his house this morning.

He sets the wine glass down on his dresser and leans over it, stretching his arms out so he can reach the crank. He turns it until the window creaks shut, squeaking as it finally wrenches closed. He withdraws as soon as he’s able, supporting himself on the surface of the dresser as he scoots away from the window. He picks the glass back up and immediately crawls into bed. A drop of the wine splashes over the rim of the glass, but he doesn’t see where it ends up. He didn’t turn the lights on. The only thing illuminating his bedroom is the moon. It’s bright tonight; perfect to have a picnic or go walking under.

He glances at the clock. It’s almost midnight. He should have been asleep three hours ago, but he wanted to spend as much time awake as possible, today. He yawns, pressing the back of his free hand against his mouth. The sounds of the house are gentle, and they urge him to curl up in bed and fall asleep without drinking the rest of his wine. He doesn’t listen to those urges, though. He bends his knees and adjusts so he is comfortably settled, leaning against his headboard with a pillow behind his back.

“Happy birthday to me,” Kyle sings quietly. He pauses, then, as if expecting to hear someone respond. No one does, however, and the buzz that he’s been developing increases his bravery. With lowered inhibitions, he sings louder, “Happy birthday to me.”

While not objectively the stupidest thing he’s ever done, it is up there on the list of idiotic. It feels dumb. It feels self-absorbed, and it just makes him feel even lonelier.

“Happy birthday, Kyle Broflovski...”

Kyle lifts the glass and throws his head back, drinking the wine until it’s half-gone. It scratches at his lips and makes his entire chest heat, but he swallows it down nonetheless. He allows himself a small break.

He finishes off the wine and mutters with a raw throat, “Happy birthday, to me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments / feedback / constructive criticism; all is welcome!


	3. Syndrome

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, vomiting sucks.

In very early June, Stan began to feel under the weather. It was so slight at first, that he hardly noticed it. A gentle malaise here, a sleepy drive there. All symptoms pointed towards seasonal allergies. The time frame of his usual issues fell right around there, generally, if not a little later in the month. Overall, he thought nothing of it. He simply kept an eye out for when the air would inevitably become slightly harder to breathe, and started double-checking to make sure he always had allergy medications on him for any emergencies that might suddenly arise. He hadn’t had an asthma attack since he was thirteen, but that didn’t make him any less wary of the possibility that it could pop up again without warning.

Almost a week later, though, things began to feel different.

It started around June ninth. He doesn’t know why he can still remember the date; it might have just been the suddenness of the new symptom’s onset that burned itself into his brain. Whatever the reason for his remembrance, the fact is still the same— and that fact would be that he woke up on that Saturday with a distinct heaviness in the back of his throat and a discomfort in his stomach.

Stan is not, and has never been, a stranger to nausea. His experience with it is extensive. That being said, he typically understands when, where, why, and how the nausea he usually deals with affects him and his life. He brushed it off at first as _just a stomach bug_ , because what _else_ would it be? But as the days progressed, the intensity of it only seemed to grow. No matter how bad it got, though, he never ended up vomiting. He _supposes_ the lack of physical proof of his nausea was a good thing, but at the same time, it was extremely infuriating. No matter what he tried— subtle diet cuts, extra sleep, over the counter antacids and anti-nausea medications—, the nausea didn’t go away. It drove him crazy and bogged him down, and he’s pretty sure Wendy was starting to catch on that something was up. She would give him weird looks, sometimes, and had sat him down to talk about things on more than one occasion.

He appreciated the concern; he really did, and he expressed as much whenever he could. He was open with the fact that he felt unwell. Their intimacy suffered; it became commonplace for him to refuse contact so he wouldn’t get her sick. A few days ago, Wendy started to appear a little green, herself. She didn’t _act_ like she felt too horrible, though, which sent a perplexed Stan into a downward spiral of _what the fuck is going on?_

Stan slept on the couch as soon as she started showing symptoms of fatigue. He knew it was likely too late to prevent whatever he’d caught from spreading, but that didn’t keep him from trying to, like… _delay the inevitable_ for his wife whenever possible. Her annoyance with his distance displayed openly the morning after he slept on the couch for the first (and only, thanks to Wendy forcing him back to bed afterward) time. Upset, she expressed that she felt like he was ignoring her and asked him what was going on. But Stan couldn’t say what was going on. He just felt sick and tired all the time— he didn’t _know_ how to explain the constant, unrelenting nausea. He hated it just as much as she did, if not more so. He wanted nothing more than for it to _go away_ already.

It’s been two weeks, give or take a day or two, and Stan still hasn’t recovered. He wakes up with a tiresome weariness and a sharp harshness in the back of his throat. He tries to swallow it down, and wipes at his eyes with his hands, curling on his left side in bed. Wendy faces the opposite wall, which he soon becomes grateful for when he starts to feel the undeniable sensitivity of impending vomit. He slowly gets out of bed, pressing his palm protectively against his forehead to shield from the blinding sunlight that streaks between their curtains.

His footsteps are heavy as he wanders into the master bathroom. He elbows the door closed behind him, and kneels down before the toilet. Somewhere between here and the bed, he managed to swallow down the saliva that had begun to pool, leaving him with only the lingering memory and anxiety of _am I going to or is this a false alarm?_

He doesn’t know how long he spends sitting there, half-dozing, in front of the toilet. He can feel it slowly building back up in the back of his throat, but it comes in waves and he isn’t really sure how seriously he needs to take it. He anxiously fidgets, picking his thumb nail against the corner of the counter to his left. The sun rises higher in the sky, brightening the bathroom as he waits. He contemplates getting up and going back to bed, but then his gag reflex triggers and he dry-heaves into the toilet. He isn’t particularly nauseous at this point, but his body seems to be trying to force him to throw up, so he’s not about to question it. He coughs a few times to see if that’ll help, but all it does is irritate his throat.

Nothing comes up, but the noise wakes Wendy, who comes to investigate. He can hear her footsteps, quiet against the carpet just outside the bathroom door. She raps on the door a few times, her nails clicking against the wood. That’s the way she knocks; she drums her nails against the surface of any wooden door, as long as it’s domestic and thin enough to be heard. Otherwise, she uses her knuckles in a more purposeful version of Stan’s own knock, and— God, Stan always loved the way she put purpose into things. The stress of everything is weighing on him, making him feel really sappy. He wants to feel better, so he can cuddle with Wendy and kiss her and tell her he loves her and maybe cry on her shoulder a little bit, because why the fuck not.

“Sweetie? You in there?” she calls through the door. He can see the shadow of her legs from the light in the hallway. He opens his mouth to respond with _yeah, who else would be in here_ , but then he’s gagging again, so that ain’t happening. The next time she speaks up, her tone is full of worry. “Stan, honey, are you okay?”

The retching soon subsides. He breathes a little sigh of relief, thankful for the minimal break, and replies, “I’m fine, Wendy, don’t worry about me.”

And finally— _finally_ — he vomits.

It’s not pleasant by any means, and it’s not very much, but it’s enough to give him hope in the fact that all of this might be over with soon. The concept of respite makes him feel a little better, and the nausea he’d been fighting all morning slowly slips out of his body. His hands are shaking and he feels a little lightheaded, which he attributes to some medical jargon he doesn’t have the patience to wrap his brain around right now. Stan flushes the toilet, and successfully avoids the urge to curl up on the bathroom floor and fall asleep. He feels well enough to be confident in going back to bed properly.

“Stan,” comes Wendy’s voice, suddenly much more clear. He glances up, and sees she’s opened the door a bit, peeking in through the gap. He flushes the toilet— and then realizes he already did that. He closes his eyes and gives a disgruntled sigh at his forgetfulness. “Are you okay?”

“I’m okay,” he confirms. On slightly shaky legs, he stands. He moves to the sink and flicks on the tap, collecting water in cupped hands and rinsing his mouth. The stomach acid still burns at his throat. It’s not nearly as bad as it was earlier, since he’s swallowed regularly a few times since, but it’s enough of a linger for him to know he’ll need to grab a small glass of water before he goes back to bed. When he grabs his toothbrush, Wendy slips into the bathroom. Her nightgown stops halfway down her thighs, and she tugs it down a little further, looping her index finger in the hem. With her free hand, she pets his back.

“Wow, you really weren’t feeling well, huh?” she asks. Stan only hums in response, too drained to do much else other than brush his teeth. Once he’s finished, he replaces the toothbrush. He straightens his posture, and frowns at the concern that overwhelms Wendy’s expression. “And this has been going on for how long?”

“A few weeks,” he answers. Her brows twitch downward, and her lips purse. She steps closer to him— presses the back of her hand against his forehead, feeling for a temperature. He gently nudges her away when she gets too close. “Babe, careful, I don’t want to get you sick—”

“You won’t get me sick,” she huffs. “We live in the same house, Stan, if you were contagious, I would have gotten it already.”

“Well, I don’t know,” he replies, trying to save a little bit of his dignity in the realm of protectiveness. “I’m not a doctor.”

Wendy drops her hand from his forehead and steps back, crossing her arms over her chest. “ _Speaking_ of which, you might want to see one.”

Stan is not a fan of that idea. Perhaps it’s a little childish, but he groans in quiet protest. He leaves the bathroom and starts down the steps for a cup of water. Wendy follows him down.

“I’m not kidding, this could be something serious,” she says.

“Doubt it,” he responds. “I’m feeling better now, anyway. Maybe I just— like, ate something, and it stuck with me for a while.”

Wendy scoffs and questions, “For _weeks_? Yeah, because _that_ makes sense.”

Stan chooses not to respond to that. He focuses instead on pulling a glass out of one of the cupboards and filling it with water from the tap. He waits for a second before he takes slow, small sips. It soothes the lingering burn he’d been ignoring thus far. His throat is still sensitive, and he almost gags at the unexpected cold of the water, which Wendy picks up on quickly. He sees her stiffen out of the corner of his gaze, like she’s prepared to drag him to the hospital by the ear at any sudden movement. Knowing her, she probably is.

“ _Sweetie_ ,” whines Wendy, her tone suddenly taking on a bit more of a frightened edge. Hearing that discomforts Stan beyond belief, and he sets the cup down on the counter. He frowns. He understands why she’s upset; he would be concerned if she had been feeling sick for weeks on end, too. There’s a tightness in his chest that tells him to protect. Although he’s still wary about contagion, he cares more about soothing her in the moment. He approaches and pulls her into a hug. She returns it without hesitation, smoothing her palms over his shoulders and pressing her face into his neck.

“I promise,” Stan begins, slowly rocking side to side with her in his arms. He dips, kisses the crown of her head, and brushes a lock of hair away from her face. He continues, “I promise, if it gets worse, I’ll see a doctor, okay? I promise.”

“You better,” Wendy says, lilting gently on the brink of scolding. Stan knows he probably deserves to be scolded, but that doesn’t mean he wants to be scolded _right this second_. He would really like to go back to bed first. Maybe he’ll be able to sleep the rest of this bug out of his system. If nothing else, the sleep might help him with his lowered mood or exhaustion. He probably just has a crappy rendition of a flu.

They hug for a while. Stan doesn’t know how long, exactly, but it’s long enough for him to start drifting into closed-eyed imaginings of sleep. He doesn’t doze off, though he comes close. Wendy pulls away and pats his shoulder before he can start snoozing.

“Get to bed, okay? And let me know if you need anything,” she says. She pinches the collar of his shirt between her fingers, and then gently tugs him down to press a chaste kiss against his cheek. He nods, and immediately begins his ascent up the stairs when she pulls away. When he’s halfway up, she calls after him a very soothing, “I love you.”

Stan smiles, responding, “I love you, too.”

Their bedroom door creaks when he opens it. He crawls into bed and leaves the door cracked, just enough to be able to see the natural light shedding in from the hallway. He rolls onto his side, curls up, and pulls the blanket up to his chin. The warmth is comfortable, and the pillow still smells like her. He misses her presence. He just wants to be close to her. Perhaps a part of it is also him disliking the concept of being alone, but that doesn’t feel quite right. He doesn’t want to let her out of his sight. Soon enough, he falls asleep, hoping he’ll feel better when he wakes again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> spoiler alert: stan's not pregnant.
> 
> comments / feedback / constructive criticism; all is welcome!


	4. Chartreuse

The doorbell rings in the mid-afternoon. Although Kyle knows he is expecting someone, he has a horrible habit of busying himself whenever he has a moment of free time. Logically, it was not a good idea to start doing laundry ten minutes before the arrival of guests. In his defense, he hadn’t gotten much sleep last night. His shift had ended later than expected. An emergency had popped up, and he wasn’t nearly lost enough in his own exhaustion to brush it off. Not that he wanted to, that was; he loves his job. He always has, and probably always will.

Kyle throws the remaining articles of freshly-dried clothing into the laundry basket, shuts the door to the drier, and picks the basket up. He’s lucky, he supposes, in that his laundry room is just to the left of the front door. It’s technically a mudroom, and has a couple empty coat and shoe racks that he bought on a whim a year or two ago. He should probably get rid of those. They just take up space, and he only has two pairs of shoes— besides, everyone just leaves their shoes by the door. He’s almost one hundred percent certain that no one even knows he _has_ a mudroom.

He perches the laundry basket against his hip temporarily, unlocking and opening the door. Politely, he smiles at Wendy, who gives him the same sentiment in return.

“Hey, come on in,” he greets, backing away from the door. He hoists the laundry basket up a bit higher, and then regains his hold on it when he decides to stop perching it like that. Wendy enters the foyer, closing the door behind herself and tugging off her flats. Kyle turns and begins up the steps, saying, “I’ll be back down in a second, I just gotta put this away.”

“Take your time,” she replies. Needless to say, Kyle will not take his time; that would be rude. As he quickly ascends, he contemplates the oddity that is the statement of “take your time”. He wonders, very briefly, where the hell that nicety came from. Eventually, though, he gives up the thought. He knows it’s not nearly as complicated as his head is making it out to be. He just wants a challenge— a problem to solve, and apparently the complexities of the English language is enough to make him feel a little less bored out of his skull.

He drops the laundry basket onto the floor beside his bed. He pushes it as far out of the way as possible for when he comes up later, and immediately begins back downstairs. Upon his return, he sees that Wendy has already started the task he invited her over to do. Though, the task itself is less of a _doing_ and more of a _contemplate doing_. She rubs at her throat in pondering, her lips pursed as she examines that ugly green couch of his. He sneaks his way over, and plucks his grandmother’s blanket off of the back of it so it can be considered in full.

Kyle is almost offended when Wendy says, “Oh, the blanket isn’t a part of it?”

“No, the blanket isn’t a part of it,” he replies. She nods, and although he can feel his expression furrow in protection of his late grandmother’s heirlooms, he understands she wasn’t trying to be malicious. The blanket does kind of fit in with the aesthetic of the sofa. It’s a little eerie, honestly, though he can’t exactly pinpoint why.

“It isn’t a bad couch,” Wendy pipes up, then, her fingers stilling against her throat. Her other hand is resting against her side, with her forearm across her stomach. “It’s very clean, and it looks like it’s in good condition, it’s just a little…”

She pauses, searching for the right word. She begins to gently rub her throat again. Kyle finishes, “Ugly.”

“Yeah, why is it that color?”

“I genuinely don’t know,” he answers. He rests his hands on his hips, trying to think back to when he’d bought it. Honestly, he had just thought it was cool… but the lighting was very different in that store. Plus, it was cheap. “I think it’s old, so maybe it’s just a lot more faded than it used to be? I mean, I _hope_ the designer didn’t actively choose to make it baby-poop green.”

Wendy swallows— audibly. It clicks in her throat, and Kyle can hear it from where he stands a few feet away. Or maybe that’s an illusion based on the visual of her throat bobbing. She’s lost a bit of color from her cheeks, he notices, though she continues with the inspection as if nothing is out of the ordinary. Kyle shakes his head. He’s probably just paranoid from spending so much time around sick people.

To break the silence, Kyle offers, “Or, I mean, maybe they were colorblind.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Wendy muses, but he can tell she’s only doing so to be nice. She stops rubbing at her throat, again. “You know, you could probably get a pretty good price for it on Craigslist or E-Bay.”

“You think so?” he replies. She hums.

“I’d say so,” she says. Again, she swallows— and is it just Kyle, or is she looking a little on-edge? “If nothing else, you can probably just get it off your hands pretty quickly, especially if you put it at a cheap price…”

Another swallow. That loss of color Kyle noticed earlier has dipped, and she now looks particularly pale. He opens his mouth to ask if she’s feeling alright, but before he can, she speaks.

“I’m sorry, I—” she cuts off, slowly presses the hand that previously rubbed her throat to her mouth. A pause. “Please excuse me for a second.”

“Are—” but she’s disappeared down the hall already. He hears the bathroom door twist open, and after a few seconds of silence, he can hear the telltale choking of someone who is throwing up. If this had happened when he was younger, Kyle would make a face and go _ew_ , but that was before medical school, and before his internship. He faces vomit on a daily basis, now— hell, he’d been puked on twice yesterday. Don’t get him wrong, it’s still gross, it just kind of loses its impact after a while. He’s desensitized.

Without thinking about it, Kyle sets his grandmother’s blanket down on the couch and heads into the kitchen. He fills a small cup about a quarter of the way full with water. He can still hear the intermittent gagging. Not a lot of actual vomiting, just a lot of dry heaving. He takes notice of that.

When the noises from the bathroom stop, Kyle takes the water with him down the hall to the door. He knocks quietly, resting his ear against the door so he catches anything she might say. She’s totally silent. With the rapid onset of the symptoms, he’s a little concerned. “Hey, Wendy, are you okay?” he asks. He could, of course, go in anyway— and if she doesn’t reply, he definitely will. For now, though, he’s going to respect her privacy.

“I’m fine,” comes her response, soft from behind the door. Her voice is thick. The silence comes back. Kyle is distinctly uncomfortable with it.

“I got you some water,” he says. He glances down at the cup in his hand. “Can I come in?”

The noise she makes in response is very quiet, but he knows it’s an affirmative, and that’s all the permission he needs to open the door and step into the bathroom. It doesn’t smell like vomit, which is always a plus. There’s nothing in the toilet, though, and she’s sitting with her back against the wall opposite it. Her eyes are closed, like the lights are hurting her eyes. He crouches next to her, keeping the cup of water in hand.

“Do you have a headache?” he asks, keeping his voice low in case she does. When she shakes her head, though, he feels a little more comfortable keeping things at a normal volume. Even so, he tries to keep things soft and low-stress. She doesn’t look well. “How are you feeling?”

“Not too great,” she admits. He nods. He kind of assumed as much. He adjusts his posture, lifting the cup for her to take, now that her eyes are open. She regards it with an expression he doesn’t have the time to place, because it’s quickly overwritten by her sudden lurch to the toilet again. She breathes heavily, hovering over the bowl, gripping the lid. Kyle sets the cup down and decides to go the extra mile and hold her hair back for her. Whenever he sees her, she usually has it in a ponytail, but that isn’t the case today. He notices a hair tie on her wrist.

“Could I have that hair tie real quick?” Kyle asks when the worst of it seems to be over. She grunts, but doesn’t argue, handing it over after a second of fumbling. He pulls her hair back into a loose bun. She thanks him quietly, croaking the word. He replies with a quiet, _you’re welcome_. He takes a few steps back and rests his shoulder against the wall, standing idly by in case she needs anything else. He knows he should probably leave her alone, but he wants to make absolutely sure she’s okay.

The retching starts up again, but this time she actually manages to vomit.

“Jesus,” Kyle says, chuckling to lighten the mood. “Are you pregnant, or something?”

She waits a few minutes, hesitating to make sure she’s finished, before flushing the toilet and grabbing the cup of water from the bathroom counter. She takes a sip. When she looks at him, he notices that she is glaring. “I am not pregnant,” she says firmly, and Kyle nods with her statement. She seems quite certain of this fact, and he isn’t about to push it. She seems to be a little irritable. After a few moments, she sighs, rubbing at her temple. “I’m sorry for this.”

“It’s fine, it’s not your fault,” he replies. “You could have told me if you weren’t feeling well, though, we could have rescheduled.”

“I know, but I was feeling okay on the way here,” she says. Then, she groans, tilting her head back. “I thought this was _over_.”

That piques Kyle’s interest. With a quirked brow, he asks, “How long has this been going on?”

Wendy takes another small sip, closing her eyes in thought. “Maybe a month?” she replies. Kyle’s eyes widen.

“A month?” he repeats. He furrows his brows. “And you’re not pregnant?”

“Ha ha, very funny,” Wendy retorts. She slowly stands up from the floor, taking another sip of water. She doesn’t swallow it, though. Instead, she swishes it in her mouth and spits into the sink. She sets the cup down, turns on the tap, and starts to wash her hands.

“I’m being serious this time,” Kyle says. “Are you _sure_ you’re not pregnant?”

“I think I’d know if I were pregnant,” she snaps. He takes that as a hint to back off, which he does. He kind of wants to argue, but he knows that won’t get them anywhere. He’s aware of the similarities he shares with her— that temper of hers can be worse than his own, at times, and he would rather not get caught in it. Huh. So maybe that’s why he hasn’t made any friends. Wendy dries her hands on the towel. “God, I probably gave this to Stan.”

Thoughts of pregnancy definitely start to seem less credible at this point. If Stan were sick after Wendy, it was likely an illness. Now Kyle has a different concern, however— just how contagious is whatever they have? Surely it is _somewhat_ , if it got both of them. But… a month? “How long has Stan been sick?” Kyle asks.

“He got sick a little after I did,” Wendy tells him. She grabs the cup of water, and they both exit the bathroom. Kyle moves his grandmother’s blanket, and they sit down on the couch. “I should have told him I wasn’t feeling well, maybe I could have prevented him catching it.”

“You live in the same house, I’d be surprised if he didn’t catch it…” Kyle is honestly still a little hung up on the sheer length of time they’ve been feeling ill. A month? Gastroenteritis usually only lasts a few days. “And you got sick first?”

Wendy nods.

“And this has been going on for a month?”

Again, she nods.

“Have there been any other symptoms?”

“No,” answers Wendy. “Maybe for Stan, but not me… from what I know, though, it’s just the usual stomach bug.”

“This is no usual stomach bug,” Kyle says. “It’s lasting a little too long. I think you should go see a doctor about this, there might be something more going on. It might be something in your house.”

Wendy frowns. “Like mold?”

“Like mold,” Kyle agrees, “Or some other toxin. Whatever it is, I would say it’s definitely worth looking into.”

Wendy worries her bottom lip between her teeth, trailing her fingers over the makeshift up-do. “I didn’t even think about some sort of household issue, but it would make sense…”

“Yeah,” Kyle agrees. He glances around the living room, and contemplates dusting. “Whatever it is, keep me posted.”

Wendy nods, agreeing, and after a few minutes of silence, suggests she better get going. She stands up from the couch, making her way over to the front door. Kyle follows suit, lingering a few feet behind as she kicks her shoes on.

“Are you sure you’re okay to drive?” he asks. “I don’t want anything to happen on your way home.”

“I’ll be fine,” Wendy says. “Thanks, though, I appreciate the concern… and I’ll keep in touch with you about that couch, okay? Try selling it online, or maybe find a good pawnshop.”

Kyle hums. “Okay,” he agrees. “I’ll look for a place to sell it.”

They say goodbye, and Wendy leaves. Kyle watches her back out of the driveway, and makes sure she gets down the street safely. At no incidents, he feels a bit better about letting her drive on her own. She’s an adult, she can handle herself. She’s a lot better at gauging safety than Stan is, that’s for sure.

Kyle plops himself down on the steps, sighing loudly. It creaks beneath him. Just like his couch.

He should really get rid of that stupid thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kyle having a weird grudge with his baby-poop green couch is lowkey my aesthetic
> 
> comments / feedback / constructive criticism; all is welcome!


	5. Positive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> eyyy look an update

Light comes in from the window, dark curtains drawn to keep things shaded. Those shades, however expensive they were (Stan can’t remember, honestly), are fairly opaque, so their coverage is surprisingly minimal. The light was usually only a problem during the mid-summer months, when the sun rose high in the sky early in the morning. It’s nearing the end of July, so now is usually when the problems arise.

Even though Stan is feeling quite refreshed this morning, he can’t help but admit the brightness is starting to annoy him. It’s slight, though, and he’s been able to master the control over slight annoyances. In a very internal sense, of course. He has a feeling it might have had to do with living with his father for so long. Randy was always pretty annoying. The thought makes him feel bitter. He closes his eyes against the offending light and rolls over, slipping his arms around the sleeping form of Wendy. He hugs her close, and she stirs. Her head tips back as she slowly wakes up.

“Mornin’,” he says. His voice is still harsh from disuse, but she doesn’t seem to mind. She used to like it when his voice would get husky and deep, no matter the cause of it. He wonders if she still feels that way, but he doesn’t ask her. It seems like a stupid way to start their Saturday.

“G’morning,” she responds. She presses herself back against his chest, and he smiles into the nape of her neck. Her hair halos out on the pillow below her head, and he can smell the linger of his conditioner, still. He wants to comb his fingers through her hair. He wants to make her breakfast in bed, and maybe wash her hair for her this morning. For now, though, he will stay in bed, curled up with her safely tucked against him.

Stan gently traces the tips of his fingers over the skin of her arm. She makes one of those smiley, happy noises— the type of noise that comes from the front of her throat. He returns the noise; he ducks to kiss her shoulder. He trails those fingers along her side, and then he dips them to linger over the front of her shirt. She wore a pair of his boxer shorts to bed. She doesn’t do that often, but it’s also not particularly rare. They don’t fit her right, a little tight around the hips, but he finds it cute. He slowly lifts the hem of her camisole, petting the soft skin of her stomach—

Wendy smacks his hand. Hard.

“Ow,” he mumbles, withdrawing. His hand stings. He rubs it. “What was that for?”

“Don’t touch me,” she hisses. Needless to say, Stan is caught extremely off-guard by Wendy’s change in demeanor. He doesn’t push it, though. After living with her for so long, he’s come to understand when he should back off. More often than not, he can manage to stay out of the doghouse. She has kicked him out a few times, but they always manage to get through it. Their arguments never last too long.

Stan takes the risk of kissing her shoulder one last time. Luckily, she seems to have fallen back into a calm. A slightly agitated calm, but a calm nonetheless. He tells her he loves her and rolls out of bed, appreciating her mumble in return. He grabs an outfit from the basket at the foot of their bed and shuffles into the bathroom. He makes quick and quiet work of his morning shower, still a little dazed from the morning. The sunlight that streams in through the blinds over the bathroom window helps him wake up, and while a cold shower is _tempting_ to push him further into the land of the living, he decides against. God knows he’s had more than his fair share of those— he will never, ever take warm water and a good shower for granted ever again.

He ties the towel around his hips and quickly combs through his hair before blowing it with the hairdryer. Only partially, though— he doesn’t exactly have the patience to sit holding the damned thing for too long. Just enough for the water to stop dripping irritatingly down his back, and to feel comfortable going about his business without leaving droplets everywhere he goes. And then, he begins to brush his teeth. The morning is mundane, overall, but the calm respite is nice. It took him a while to learn how to appreciate the slowness of things, sometimes, because he naturally feels a little lost without things going on all the time. He’s chalked it up to the type of person he is. He craves the adrenaline that comes from risks, which has led him into some _really_ stupid shit, but that was years ago.

Stan looks his reflection in the eyes as he continues to brush, and wonders if he’s getting old. Maybe he hasn’t _learned_ anything. Maybe this is just him maturing into an actual adult rather than feeling like he’s immortal. Maybe he’s finally been able to appreciate the slow things because he genuinely _likes_ the slow things, now. It’s both a reassuring thought, and a mildly terrifying one. Wait, what is he doing with his life? He’s almost thirty. He’s happy, but he isn’t doing much. Should he be doing more? Will he always be fulfilled with his job as it is now? Will he always be fulfilled with the way things are turning out? What if he never _does_ anything else and this is it? Is he okay with that? Of course he’s okay with that, what is he thinking? If he wasn’t okay with that, he’d still be— Jesus, wait, is he having an existential crisis? Is that what this is? Hold on—

The door to the bathroom bursts open and Wendy tumbles in, startling Stan out of himself. He watches, silent, as she perches in front of the toilet and proceeds to puke into the bowl. He isn’t quite sure what to do. The shock is still fresh, and for a moment, he doesn’t do anything. Finally, though, he rinses his toothbrush, spits, and dries his mouth. He approaches quietly, and gently reaches down to touch her shoulder. She makes a low growling noise, somewhere deep in her throat. He gets the hint and backs off.

“Are you okay?” he asks her. She groans, very quietly, and presses a hand to her forehead. Stupidly, he thinks, _She must not be feeling well_. He wonders if she still has whatever bug he’d gotten, and then becomes slightly worried because hers’ has lasted significantly longer. He’s caught her vomiting and overheard her gagging when he wakes up in the morning, and sometimes even when he gets home from work. It’s different than his in that respect. He’d only gotten really sick once, and then it was done, and he’s been fine ever since.

Stan glances around the bathroom, like that’ll help him come up with a solution to this. He wonders if he should tell her to go to the hospital, and then wonders if she’s already thought of that. He wants to bring it up, but he thinks it might just be best to help her through the _right-now_ rather than telling her what she should do.

So, he settles for the tried and true, “Is there anything I can get you?”

Uncharacteristically, Wendy answers, “Bacon.”

Stan almost chokes on air. _Bacon_? “Bacon?” he asks.

“Bacon,” she affirms. And then she gives him this look that is both firm and pleading, and he’s very tempted to give in and make her some bacon, but he doesn’t.

“Honey, I don’t know if bacon is—”

“Trust me,” she says. “Bacon.”

And. Well. He guesses he’s going to make bacon?

Stan acquiesces to her requests, however hesitantly, and leaves her after double-and-triple-checking to make sure she’ll be okay. He dresses first, of course, because no matter _how_ tempting it would be to cook bacon in nothing but a towel, he knows it will not end well. Spitting grease and a nude torso typically don’t mix. He trails his fingers through his hair, and then wipes the moisture off of his hand using the fabric of his sweatpants. He grabs the bacon out of the freezer, and mills about the kitchen semi-aimlessly while he waits for the pan to heat up. To make himself useful, he pulls out the crackers and plates some, just in case the bacon is, indeed, not a good idea.

He checks the pan, and once it’s ready, he begins the excursion of bacon strips. It’s an easy thing to cook. He likes it. He’s never really been a huge bacon guy— he thinks it tastes good, sure, but he wouldn’t die for it or anything. As far as he knew, Wendy was much the same. In fact, last he checked, she could go the rest of her life happily without ever touching it again. They only kept some around because he’d sometimes wake up in the mood for bacon.

At some point, he gets lost in the mechanics of it. The placing, the waiting, the turning, the waiting, the removing. The noise comes in, a sizzling and a popping, and a few times, he can feel pinpricks of heat along his arm from the grease. He doesn’t pay attention to that, though. He kind of can’t. His mind wanders to another continent.

Stan can usually feel people come up behind him. He can feel the way the air moves, and he can feel their eyes. He’s overly aware of the space other people take up around him, and he’s usually never caught by surprise, but today is different. Someone touches his arm, and he _knows_ it’s Wendy, because who the fuck else would it be? But he still flinches and drops the fork onto the stove, and he still spins to look at who came creeping up on him.

“ _Fuck_ , _don’t do that_ ,” he says. The words come out a lot more agitated and snappish then he meant them to, and he immediately regrets it. Wendy’s brows are raised and there’s a frown on her lips, and he wonders if he freaked her out. Until her brows furrow, and she no longer looks caught off-guard. Instead, she looks lightly disgruntled.

“Don’t do what?” she returns. “I didn’t do anything.”

“You came up behind me—” but then her expression morphs into something that seems more inquisitive than he’d like to deal with, and he shakes his head and decides it’s not worth it. He brushes it off, apologizes for snapping, and turns his attention back to the bacon.

Wendy pulls two plates out of the cabinet and sets the table, which he appreciates outwardly with a hum of thanks. As she passes him, she lifts her head and kisses his cheek. She’s showered in the time since he last saw her. She wears that soft bathrobe she got a few years back, and her hair is pulled into a ponytail. It drips into the fabric of the bathrobe. She brings with her the aroma of his shampoo and conditioner. He’s a little embarrassed by just how much he loves the way it smells on her.

He puts everything away— tosses the dishes in the sink for later— and brings the plate of bacon over to the dining table. She’s sat herself down at the table already, smoothing her fingers over her ponytail. That’s a habit of hers. It helps her think. Vaguely, Stan wonders what she’s thinking about. He sits down and grabs a piece of bacon from the plate, munching on it thoughtlessly. It’s quiet, for a long moment, as they start to eat. Wendy eats a piece and a half before she stands with a certain suddenness. Immediately, his thoughts turn to worry. They turn to, _She’s gonna throw up again, I shouldn’t have made bacon_ — but she doesn’t go throw up. All she does is make her way back into the kitchen, and when she returns, she does so with two cups and the carton of orange juice. She sets all three items down on the table. Stan reaches for a second slice of bacon, still slightly distracted. He wonders if he should go for a run this morning. He has to get in some daily exercise, and he hasn’t gone for a morning run in a long time. It might be a nice change of pace.

“Babe, could you hold this for me real quick?” Wendy asks, presenting him with a thermometer. Still distracted, he hums an acceptance and takes it without question. His gaze is directed towards the window, where the sun beats in with a certain vigor. Yeah. A run would do some good. He should do that. He’ll have to shower again when he gets back, but he doesn’t have an issue with that. He could take the path out by the lake, like he used to. Wendy places a cup of orange juice in front of him.

“Thank you,” he says, and he reaches for it with his left hand. But then he realizes the thermometer is already in that hand, so he sets it down on the table and picks up the cup of orange juice and takes a sip and.

Hey.

Hey wait a second.

Hey wait a goddamn minute, that isn’t a thermometer.

Stan sets the cup back onto the table and snatches the item back up into his hand. He drops the piece of bacon back onto his plate, and goes ahead to wipe his hand free of grease using the paper towel.

Upon closer inspection, his latter assumption is correct. It isn’t a thermometer. It isn’t a thermometer at all. It’s too big to be a thermometer, and too light to be a thermometer, and too _plastic-y_ to be a thermometer.

It’s a pregnancy test.

And it’s.

Oh.

Stan’s mouth falls open, and he looks up, staring at Wendy with wide eyes. She’s smiling back at him, almost nervous in the way she picks bits of burn off of a piece of bacon. The first thing he can think is. No. What? No, right? Like, this is a joke. But he feels his mouth pull up into a smile.

“No,” he says quietly, in disbelief. In shock? There’s no way this is real. Is this happening? He’s dreaming.

But she nods and says, “Yes.”

Gently, Stan places the pregnancy test down on the table. He cards his fingers through his hair. “You’re kidding,” he says, but he’s still smiling. There’s this piece of him in the back of his mind that’s saying this is real. But he needs confirmation. If this turned out to be a joke…

“I’m not kidding,” Wendy says, and his heart does a thing. It flutters in his chest. The breath rushes out of his lungs.

“For real?” he asks.

“For real.”

Stan gets up. Wendy does, too. The grin is spreading on his face, and his cheeks hurt, but he doesn’t care. “For real for real?”

“For real for real,” she confirms. There are tears gathering in her eyes, and her cheeks are developing a rosy glow. And it hits him. Like, all at once. His heart does that thing again, and his chest feels so full, and he’s never felt this way before. There are no words, nothing could possibly describe it.

Stan pulls her into his arms and lifts her up, spinning them both around because he has so much _energy_. She’s gripping him like her life depends on it. He’s not much better. They both cling to each other, and he strokes her hair after he’s set her back down, and presses kiss after kiss after kiss to her forehead, in love with her all over again. He can’t stop whispering, “Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god,” intermixed with, “I’m gonna be a dad? I’m gonna be a dad?”

Stan kisses her. Full, complete, beautiful, on the lips. He brushes away the tears that are traveling down her cheeks. His own eyes burn with needle-points, and he’s almost a hundred percent sure he’s crying, too, but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t care.

“I’m gonna be a dad? We’re gonna have a baby?” he asks. He looks right into her blue eyes, right into the calm beauty of them, hopeful, because he needs more confirmation.

He gets it. He gets the confirmation with her smile, and her tears of joy, and her whispered response of, “We’re gonna have a baby.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments / feedback / constructive criticism; all is welcome!


	6. The Q-Word

Among many other things, Kyle’s impatience is just another symptom of his long day. Arduous at best, he fees like he hasn’t done nearly as much as he would have liked. The menial tasks of paperwork and the relatively mundane (while still admittedly enjoyable) work-through of rounds only allows a certain amount of accomplishment. Today had been, in all respects, ultimately _Q-Word_ — he still can’t refer to the ER as the _Q-Word_ , even after he leaves for the end of his shift. It’s a superstition he’s taken to heart.

Kyle strips off his jacket and throws it over the end of the banister. There’s a coat rack in the mudroom that he should be using, but he doesn’t care nearly enough to put everything into order tonight. He even goes so far as to kick his shoes haphazardly into a corner rather than tucking them where they belong. Along with the impatience, he’s gained a certain sense of apathy. Nothing extreme, as is obvious, but it’s just enough to get him to not give a fuck… which is kind of the definition of apathy, isn’t it? In a way, certainly, he knows it must be. The specifics of definitions are too much for him, right now, and yet they aren’t enough. The boredom overtakes him once more, and although it’s relatively late into Saturday night, he finds himself utterly craving the excitement that comes from _doing something_.

It is uncharacteristic of him, that much is true, but he can’t help himself. He cups his hands around his mouth and calls into his empty house: “It was _Quiet_ today!”

The only thing that meets his ears is the repetitive buzz of his voice tumbling off the walls. It’s palpable, almost, and his ears ring with the absence of anything there to ground him. He wonders if he would be able to see the noise if he turned on a light. A moment too late, he reaches over to the light switch and flicks it on, squinting in the sudden brightness. The beige of his stupid walls keeps him irate; it gives him a sense of doom that he hates more than anything. Without a second thought, he jabs the lights back off again. Once more, he is flooded in darkness.

“It was _Quiet_ ,” he repeats, his volume only half of what it had first been. The remains of his voice grate upon his ears. It makes his head hurt and his face scrunch up in expression. Slowly, Kyle makes his way through his house. He announces his arrival to every room, exclaims the slowly-cliched “It was _Quiet_ , it was _Quiet_.”

He finishes in his kitchen, where he comes to realize he hates talking when no one is there to listen. Talking to himself in such a manner, as if someone were really here to quench his thirst for interaction, is ridiculous. But belligerently, he continues, argumentative with even himself in the halfhearted returns of _It was_ Quiet _today_.

Kyle comes to a stop before the kitchen sink. He leans against the metal with his palms, stares into the drain and contemplates calling someone so he doesn’t feel quite so… like this. How ridiculous is that? He can’t even describe it. Words can’t express the pure emotion he feels, but at the same time, he can’t really figure out if that’s because he’s feeling _too much_ or _too little_.

What is this? Is he depressed, is that what this is? Or is he just so painfully alone that his brain has tricked him into thinking he’s just generally not happy?

The harsh moonlight from the window catches the faucet. It’s late. It’s late as hell, if the moon is already so sure of itself in the summer sky. Embarrassingly enough, Kyle looks out the window and tries to wax poetic. But all the shit he comes up with is just that: shit. His brain doesn’t have the energy to conjure anything more than, _oh, look, the moon’s brighter than my future. How stellar._

For fuck’s sake, he feels like an old cat lady, minus the cats. He’s allergic to the fucking things, which just makes his destiny as one of those cat ladies fucking miserable and unachievable, unless he wants to suffer through daily Diphenhydramine. Which, surprise surprise: _he fucking doesn’t._

Kyle comes to the realization that he needs something to do. Something simple, just to keep his mind from wandering too far, and just to keep his hands busy. He contemplates reading, but Stephen King doesn’t exactly feel like a good idea right now, and he _hates_ reading two different things at once. He’s lost the patience for television. How ridiculous. He feels like a kid, bored out of his wits. He pushes away from the sink and brushes his fingertips through his hair, and wonders if he should just go to bed. He’s definitely tired enough.

Bitterly, Kyle thinks, _Oh, how the tables have turned_. It’s one of those sentences that come into his brain without prompting from any train of thought. It just erupts, tells his ears he’s lost himself down some hole of hellish afterthought, curls its fingers into his collarbone until he has to pull his shirt away from his neck. He strips off the tie he’d forgotten he wore today. He picks it through his fingers, weaves it until it loses individual texture. Then, haphazardly, he drops it down on the counter of his kitchen island. He hates keeping things out of order, hates the way it looks out of place, but at the same time, he kind of loves the chaotic nature of it. The _I just totally fucked something up, ha ha,_ of it.

Except he didn’t fuck anything up. Not publicly, at least— and can something _really_ be fucked up if no one else is there to see it?

The bitterness comes back in waves. He ignores it until he feels it in his teeth. A phantom feeling, sour in all respects. Ignoring it does nothing; it’s not something he cares to push away.

Kyle grabs a wine glass from his cupboard and retrieves the bottle of wine from under the counter. He opens the bottle and pours until a quarter of the glass is full. Fuck it, half of the glass. Fuck it further, three fourths of the—

His phone rings. It buzzes in his pocket, and he breathes a hefty sigh of “Hell,” as he sets down the wine bottle and fishes out his cell. He half expects it to be a coworker, angrily yelling, _You said the_ Q-Word _, didn’t you!_ But it isn’t. Stan’s caller ID meets his eyes, and Kyle is vaguely surprised— but not disappointed— that he’s being called by a friend. He doesn’t think he would have the patience for anyone else. Even his own family might push him a little far. He hits _accept call_ and pushes the phone to his ear.

“Hello?” he says, and fuck, even if he isn’t depressed, he sure sounds it. He cringes at the lack of energy from himself. At the same time, though, he can’t help it. It’s been a long, long, long and _boring_ day, and he’s not expecting much from a phone call with Stan, even if he wants to. Unfortunately, Stan seems to pick up on this. His voice crackles a little over the line.

“ _Hey, Kyle— uh, you okay?_ ”

Kyle’s not going to lie, he almost loses it. He almost cracks and says, _Honestly, no, I’m not okay, I’m feeling really lonely and I’m not sure if I want to drink away my problems or cry_. And, wow, that was sad, wasn’t it? So he pushes it away and just says, “Yeah, I’m fine, I’m just a little tired.” Then, to push believability, he says, “I just woke up from a nap, so I’m still kinda slow.”

“ _Oh, crap, sorry, is this a bad time? It is a little late, isn’t it? Crap, I didn’t think about that, crap._ ”

Kyle rolls his eyes, leaning his free hand against the edge of the counter. “No, it’s not a bad time, don’t worry about it. I was gonna get up, anyway.” How many lies can he tell in a matter of minutes? Many, it turns out. Or maybe, this just counts as one continuous lie. In which case, how long can he keep it up? Forever, he’d be willing to bet. Lying about a nap isn’t exactly monumental. “So, what’s up? Did something happen? I don’t think I’ve heard you use the word _crap_ unironically since we were in middle school.”

“ _Oh, right! Uhh—_ ” something on the other line shuffles, and there’s giggling. Wendy, as far as Kyle can tell. Definitely Wendy, unless Stan suddenly got a mistress, which would literally never happen. He couldn’t find a new girlfriend even when Wendy broke up with him. Now that they’re married? Absolutely not.

Jesus Christ, they’re made for each other, aren’t they? Kyle’s a little bit jealous.

There’s distant noise in the call. Laughter. “ _Can I tell him—? …yeah? Like, you don’t want to—…? Is this something we should do in— don’t look at me like that!_ ” and then there’s more laughter. Kyle hears Wendy assure Stan that _it’s okay_ , and Kyle doesn’t understand what’s going on.

“What, are you two _finally_ getting married?” Kyle asks sarcastically. Stan laughs into the line.

“ _Oh, ha-ha, very funny._ ” But Kyle can hear the smile in Stan’s voice. He’s happy about something. Really happy. Given context clues, Kyle’s starting to catch onto what might be going on here.

“Well, what is it?” he asks. “Spit it out, man.”

“ _Wendy’s pregnant,_ ” Stan finally blurts. Then, more excitedly, he adds, “ _We’re gonna have a baby— I’m gonna be a dad!_ ”

The only thing Kyle can think is _I knew it_. He must have said it out loud, too, because Stan makes a perplexed noise.

“ _What do you mean? How did you know?_ ”

“What? Oh, I didn’t, I just— y’know, I had my suspicions.” Kyle gives a wayward glance to the glass of wine on the counter. He would really like to take a sip. He tells himself it’d be to celebrate, but that doesn’t fit the bill. Celebrating his friend’s wife’s pregnancy with alcohol? He knows he’s only craving a drink because it’ll keep his free hand busy. To distract himself, Kyle wanders around the perimeter of the kitchen. “Congratulations, though! I didn’t know you guys were trying?”

Honestly, he’s surprised they’re as happy as they are. Wendy had been pretty sharp about not being pregnant. But then again, maybe that was just fear of Stan not being happy, or maybe it was just general apprehension. But, hey, it’s not a bad thing they’re happy.

That kid’s gonna have a good life.

“ _We weren’t! Well, not, like, actively… we talked about it a few times, but it didn’t really happen, and now— now it happened! Oh my god, man, oh my god._ ”

Kyle is smiling. It’s an involuntary smile, one that’s triggered by the happiness he’s hearing over the phone. No— the happiness is more than that. It’s pure joy. Glee. Elation. He can’t stop thinking about how fun it’s going to be to see Stan’s reaction to all of the ups and downs that’ll come with Wendy’s pregnancy. Admittedly, he’s also a little excited about what the baby’s gonna be like.

Stan is _totally_ gonna freak out, and it’s gonna be great.

“Congratulations,” Kyle repeats, and it sounds a little less forced this time. His smile cuts through— he can hear it in his own voice. Stan makes an excited noise. Stan says something that’s in the middle of a _Thank you_ and an _Oh my god_. He’s gone back to laughing, again, and it’s absolutely infectious. Kyle laughs, too. “You guys are gonna be fantastic parents, you’re gonna be a great dad.”

And Stan asks, “ _You think so?_ ”

Like the sappy guy he is, Kyle replies, “I _know_ so.”

That makes Stan laugh again. He says some more things about how excited he is, and tries a few times to sum up his feelings into words, but it mostly just comes out like inaudible mush. Kyle stays on the line through all of it, though, because he loves hearing his friend so happy. He meanders down the hall, and ignores the floorboard that creaks. Somehow, though, that seems to be the end of it. Twenty minutes of calling and congratulations and Stan’s blubbering later, and Wendy tells Stan to _stop monopolizing Kyle’s time, babe_. Kyle opens his mouth to protest, but he decides against it. It’s probably code for _I want to spend time with you_. Kyle isn’t going to get in the way.

Stan says an excitedly disappointed goodbye, and assures Kyle that they’re going to have to hang out sometime soon. Kyle agrees. Then they hang up.

And then it’s _the Q-Word_.

Kyle sighs. The goodness he’d been feeling from the call dissipates. He still feels better, but the uppity mood he’d developed is no longer as strong. He pockets his phone and goes right back into the kitchen, where the way-too-full glass of wine still sits on the counter. He picks it up and swirls the contents, careful now to spill any. He makes to drink, but then stops.

He grabs the bottle of wine, and pours the contents of his cup back into it— carefully. But even with the care he’d taken, some of it still spills down the neck of the bottle. He sets down the now-empty wine glass, closes the bottle, and replaces it after he’s cleaned all the drips. He washes his hands free of the stickiness left over, grabs his tie, and cleans up.

Kyle hangs his coat on the rack, puts his shoes in their place, and heads upstairs. He says fuck it to the stuff he’d not previously wanted to do. It busies his hands better than wine would, anyway. So, he decides he’s going to finish reading that Stephen King novel. He’s going to have the television on as background noise, too, just to spite himself.

But first, he’s going to draw a bubble bath, because why the fuck not?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> can't go wrong with a bubble bath.
> 
> comments / feedback / constructive criticism; all is welcome!


End file.
